


Numbers and Figures

by picturestoproveit



Series: A Wound Across My Memory [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Fear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 03:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2607392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a difference three minutes makes….</p>
            </blockquote>





	Numbers and Figures

Tell me you love me

Come back and haunt me

Oh and I rush to the start

~ Coldplay,  _The Scientist_

* * *

 

More and more, Molly had found herself thinking in terms of numbers.

She was far from proficient in mathematics, her grades merely passable in secondary school and uni. Yet despite that fact, she had always held a certain fondness for numbers.

Numbers were logical. Numbers were free from emotion. Numbers represented facts, and facts were easily distinguishable from feelings.

At times, the simple act of counting was enough to soothe her mind, enough to prevent her from teetering off of an emotional precipice. She’ll always remember that the pediatrician who set her broken arm had forty-two tiles adorning the ceiling of his office.

Thirty-seven rows of chairs in her primary school auditorium, where she struggled to spell the word _elegiac_ during the 1989 regional spelling bee.

Eleven pearl buttons on the blouse of the police sergeant who delivered the news of her mother’s automobile accident.

Six pallbearers to carry her father’s casket.

(Two sugars in Sherlock Holmes’ coffee.)

It was the second day of the first month of the new year. Six weeks and three days since she and Sherlock effectively entered a relationship. One week and five days since their last intimate encounter. One week and four days since Sherlock kissed her goodbye at Kings Cross Station, right before she boarded a train to spend the holiday with her aunt in Leeds.  

One week since the phone call.

(Eighty-eight seconds long. One murder confession. Six months _._ Three words, repeated four times: _I’m so sorry._ )

Five days since she last ate anything more substantial than one slice of toast. Three days since she last woke up screaming, her broken wails echoing off the walls of her neglected flat.

* * *

Molly looked around the room, studying the sparse furnishings in an attempt to acclimate to her new surroundings: three windows, four walls, one bathroom.

(One minute since she had set the timer on her phone.)

Jim Moriarty’s message had been on her computer screen for no more than four minutes before her phone rang, the unfamiliar voice on the other end telling her she would be receiving an escort to her flat (ten minutes to pack _)_ and would be brought to a safe house until further notice (fifty-two miles north of London).

( _One hundred and nineteen seconds…one hundred and eighteen seconds…one hundred and seventeen seconds…_ )

She stared down at the object in her hands, twirling it slowly. Earlier that day, it had been in gift box, impeccably wrapped in silver paper and sitting on her desk. The attached notecard, embossed with a red magpie seal, was practically blank, save for the three small _X_ ’s that had been inked in the lower corner.

( _Forty two seconds…forty one seconds…forty seconds…_ )

Two objects, nestled snuggly in a silversmith’s gift box – one pricey, heavy, painstakingly crafted; the other less expensive (obviously purchased from the chemist’s, rather than the posh shop that beget the first item), and infinitely heavier than it’s physical weight suggested.

( _Twenty–two seconds, twenty-one seconds, twenty seconds…_ )

Molly brought the object back up to eye-level, examining the fine etchings and personalized engraving with a numb and dispassionate eye, choosing instead to focus on the details of the gift rather than the nauseating implications of it’s existence.

( _Ten seconds…nine seconds…eight seconds…_ )

A rattle.  One small, sterling silver, apple-shaped baby’s rattle, beautifully hewn and polished, engraved with three letters: _I.O.U_

( _Five seconds…four seconds…three seconds…_ )

Molly stood on shaky legs. She made her way to the bathroom, the rattle clutched tightly in one hand, the cool metal warming beneath the inferno of her skin. She stopped in the doorway, gazing at the second gift, the thin white plastic perched precariously on the edge of the wash basin.

She didn’t even need to enter the room to read the results. The unmistakable beacon of bright pink would have been visible from a mile away.

( _One second…_ )

Two lines.

( _…time_.)


End file.
